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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29669085">Still life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram'>dana_norram</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Halcyon days [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Barebacking, Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hair-pulling, Introspection, M/M, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Wet &amp; Messy, What Happened in Malta (The Old Guard)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:40:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29669085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Shhhh,” Yusuf releases Nicolò’s hair so he can wrap his hand around his throat. His long fingers holding him just a touch below too much, just enough for air to pass through, but not enough for words. “I know, my heart. I know.”</p>
  <p>Nicolò cannot tell what exactly Yusuf knows, but he trusts Yusuf with his life as well as with his death. Nicolò is his for Yusuf to do what he pleases, a blank canvas for him to tear apart and to put back together. Nicolò knows Yusuf could never damage him beyond repair.</p>
</blockquote>After Quỳnh, Yusuf is afraid of losing control. Nicolò is eager to help in any way that he can.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Halcyon days [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>D/s JoeNicky Event</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Still life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the first part of my contribution for the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DomSubJoeNickyOldGuardEvent/works">Dom!Joe week</a> and it was inspired by <a href="https://kerua-karua.tumblr.com/post/637321730361327616">this beautiful comics</a> made by Kerua-Karua. Please, go check it out, the artwork is simply stunning.</p><p>My eternal thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sal_si_puedes/">Aqua</a>, who beta’ed this in such a short notice so I won’t miss my deadline for the event. Her suggestions made this so much better and you guys should totally go check all her glorious smutty pieces. And thank you, Luz, for helping me to pick up a summary.</p><p>Also, it’s worth mentioning this fic is a companion piece to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138862">The weight of my bones</a>, but you definitely do not have to read it in order to understand this one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The winter solstice comes and goes, and there is no sight of Andromache.</p><p>Nicolò watches as Yusuf paces outside their cabin staring at the sea, earthy eyes set on the blue infinity, waiting to spot a familiar figure hiking the hill towards them, axe strapped on her back, long hair tangled and clothes covered in dust. They both miss their sister deeply, but Nicolò knows Yusuf feels like he has failed her all over again.</p><p>Nicolò knows Yusuf thought he had it under control.</p><p>After Quỳnh, they had stayed by Andromache’s side for a whole century, never allowing her to stray too far away from their sight, their care, until they woke up one morning and found her gone. She had left a note, a promise to meet them in a year’s time, and now that time was up.</p><p>Yusuf grows more restless as the days pass, and Nicolò does not know what to say to ease his love’s worries. Even Nicolò has a lump in his throat and he cannot bring himself to eat the pastries he has spent a week making. He lets the crisp layers of dough filled with walnuts and honey become mushy, and once the flies are draw in, he throws the whole batch to the chickens. He feels awful for wasting good food, but Yusuf is not eating them either, and when the celebrations marking the new year die out in the Great Harbour they admit aloud: Andromache is not coming.</p><p>Nicolò feels powerless as he watches a deep shadow set on Yusuf’s eyes. It does not help that the winds turn meaner and the nights grow darker, the winter harder to endure with a coldness in one’s heart.</p><p>He tries to distract Yusuf to the best of his abilities. Nicolò sends him to the nearest market once a week when the weather allows it, because their clothes need mending and he needs new needles or because he needs more flour for bread, a new pot for stew. If Yusuf knows his reasons, he does not mention them.</p><p>When the winter finally breaks, Nicolò suggests they should go after her, but Yusuf shakes his head only once, his teeth set, shoulders rigid.</p><p>The truth is that they have no idea where to start looking. As far as they know Andromache could have sailed to the New World or travelled back to the desert where she found Quỳnh for the first time. And Nicolò knows that the best course of action for him and Yusuf would be to split up, to narrow down their search. Maybe one should go North, the other South, Malta left behind as a crossroads in their past.</p><p>Yusuf recoils to the idea like he’s been whipped, and his eyes finally show an emotion besides grief. Nicolò understands. He knows Yusuf feels adrift, waiting for the next blow. The idea of wandering on his own (the idea of <i>leaving Nicolò alone on his own</i>) terrifies Yusuf more than he can put in words, and Nicolò knows it is best to not suggest it again for the way Yusuf holds him as they sleep during the next couple of days. His embrace so tight it is almost painful, like he is afraid Nicolò would turn into dust come morning.</p><p>(Nicolò wonders if he could ever come back from that, from ashes to flesh, whole again in his love’s arms.)</p><p>In the end, they decide to wait for Andromache one more year before setting to travel to every port known in the world. They could leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow, messages and notes written in languages dead or dying. If Andromache is still out there, they will find her. It is a good plan.</p><p>Yet, Yusuf cannot rest, because even if his soul is filled with poetry, both his feet are rooted firmly to the ground and Nicolò knows Yusuf cannot stop thinking about the worst of outcomes and about his lack of power to change them.</p><p>Nicolò knows Yusuf cannot stop wondering about <i>what ifs</i>.</p><p>What if Andromache somehow managed to end it and her bones are the only thing left of her after the wild animals had their fill. Nicolò knows Yusuf wonders if he will ever get a chance to wrap his sister’s remains in clean cloth and discover if he feels the need to talk to God still, even after all these years. He knows Yusuf is wondering if it would be right for him to fill his heart with intent and to pray for a soul older than his faith.</p><p>Nicolò knows Yusuf is wondering if maybe the guilt and despair took the final toll and Andromache secured a sturdy chain around her ankle, with a heavy stone on the other end, and threw herself into the Sutton harbour; to be alive, but cold and wet and maybe one day numbed by madness like the love of her life.</p><p>And Nicolò knows Yusuf fears that second option above all else. Yusuf fears that would be what <i>he</i> would have done in Andromache’s place. Nicolò knows Yusuf wonders how he would have carried on if it was Nicolò left to drown and to gasp back into a wet and salty hell of eternity. Nicolò knows Yusuf wonders if he would be able to keep searching without going mad. Without giving up. Without losing himself in the process.</p><p>(He could have come back from the flames, Nicolò is almost certain, but maybe not from that.)</p><p>Nicolò knows Yusuf thinks about Andromache day after day and Nicolò knows his love wonders, though he does not utter a word, if maybe now it is just the two of them left in this world. Yusuf has grown used to having a family he can care for. Nicolò feels the same and he is grateful for (and almost ashamed of) knowing he has Yusuf to care for still.</p><p>And as Nicolò watches, he <i>sees</i> Yusuf’s need to feel in control again and he muses about what he can do to give his love just that.</p><p>So one morning in early May, Nicolò lets Yusuf finish the repairs on their shed’s leaky roof, asks him to remember milking the goat and takes their horse so he can travel further to the Great Harbour. He spends the day walking around sailors and merchants and he visits the shops to buys new brushes, canvas and oils, his eyes trained as he chooses between shades and colours he knows Yusuf favours for his mixes. He asks the shopkeeper about work and smiles when he hears the answer. He makes one last stop before heading home.</p><p>“I went by <i>ta' Liesse</i> church,” Nicolò says once he is back, extracting the contents from his travel bag and laying them out on the table with care. “They need a painting for their new chapel.”</p><p>Yusuf is kneading dough to make fresh bread, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his elbows. The vision of the dough being pounded by Yusuf’s fists makes Nicolò feel heat pooling in his lower belly, but he tries to ignore it. This is not about him. Instead, Nicolò notices an almost smile hidden by Yusuf’s bushy beard. It is the first one Yusuf has managed in days, and Nicolò’s heart skips a beat.</p><p>“What is the theme?” Yusuf asks, covering the dough with a piece of cloth to let it rest. He rubs his hands together to clean some of the flour left.</p><p>Nicolò hesitates. An idea, simple but bold has start to grow in his mind during his ride back, but now he is slightly afraid Yusuf would find it tasteless. He wonders if he should uproot it from his head like weeds from their vegetable patch and throw it away. It is not too late yet.</p><p>“It is Saint Sebastian,” he says as he enters their bedroom in search for the device they will be needing should Yusuf accept his offer. He is happy to see his hands are steady as he takes it from the wall, his decision made. Nicolò overhears as Yusuf delves around the items he has brought and smiles when his love makes approving noises at his choices of colours and brushes.</p><p>“I will probably need a live model,” Yusuf muses aloud as Nicolò steps back into the kitchen. Yusuf’s back is turned towards him, and Nicolò notices how long his hair has grown over the past year, hiding away his neck, and he has to control himself to not march straight up to him and grab those curls between his fingers to expose the flawless skin beneath. Instead, Nicolò stays put, holding the heavy piece of wood and iron on his hands like a lifeline.</p><p>It may be for him, very soon.</p><p>“I know, my love,” Nicolò says, realising too late the tremor in his voice, which causes Yusuf to turn around.</p><p>Yusuf’s eyes lock first on his face, but soon he seems thoroughly distracted by the sturdy crossbow Nicolò has just pulled from their bedroom wall. He blinks, raw understanding settling in his brown eyes. One of Yusuf’s hands is holding a brush so tightly his knuckles are turning white, and Nicolò wonders if he might break it. He smirks, unbashful.</p><p>“I thought you could use me.”</p><p>There is a long pause, and Nicolò thinks he could cut the tension in the room with a knife, until Yusuf lets out a breath and unclenches his fist, placing the brush back onto the table.</p><p>Nicolò takes in the vision of the love of his life with a bit of flour left in his curls and beard, his eyes hooded with a sparkle in them. Yusuf does not say anything, though, which makes Nicolò wary. They usually can tell what they are thinking by just looking at each other, but now Nicolò is not sure. He never suggested that sort of thing before.</p><p>His breath catches in his throat when Yusuf walks towards him. It is a small distance, a couple of feet maybe, but somehow it feels vaster, like Yusuf is giving him time to bolt, to change his mind.</p><p>But Nicolò is not going anywhere. He finds himself enthralled by every movement of Yusuf’s body, his long limbs and powerful arms, and of course by his eyes, always his eyes. They are usually only a fountain of gentleness and compassion, but now, Nicolò feels like Yusuf’s eyes are pinning him to the ground, like he is a fine specimen in a cabinet of curiosities, laid out on an autopsy table. He knows he would let Yusuf dissect him, take him apart piece by piece, write notes and draw sketches, make an anatomical treaty of his entire being, bound in leather.</p><p>He wants to ask what his love has in mind, but when Yusuf draws closer so they are looking into each other’s eyes, words fail him and Nicolò lets Yusuf take the crossbow from his hands in silence. He watches as Yusuf walks into their bedroom and stares at the hook where the weapon is usually left, always close by in case of need. Nicolò loves the longbow, it is a fine and elegant weapon, but the precision and the power of a crossbow bolt makes for a quick and surer death, a more merciful one. Is Yusuf going to be merciful with him?</p><p>“Are you certain?” Yusuf asks, back turned, looking from their bed to the hook on the wall. “Nicolò?”</p><p>Nicolò watches Yusuf’s shoulders, looking for hesitation or maybe even fear, but Yusuf does not look tense anymore, the lines of his back relaxed under his shirt. And Nicolò has made up his mind so he nods, before he realises Yusuf cannot see him. “Yes,” he utters, relieved that his voice does not falter him this time.</p><p>Yusuf nods as well, but still does not turn, and when he finally moves towards the wall, Nicolò is confused and maybe even a little hurt, for Yusuf hooks the crossbow back in its place before he turns to Nicolò and embraces him, pressing his mouth to his neck.</p><p>“Let’s clear the table for dinner, my heart.”</p><p>Nicolò wants to ask, wants to understand if he has offended Yusuf or if Yusuf is still thinking about his offer, but his love’s face is unreadable and that frustrates him more than anything. Yusuf does not look mad or sad or angry as he did over the last months, so Nicolò counts that as a good thing, but his confusion nags at him still. He swallows it down and nods, picking his battles.</p><p>Nicolò clears the table as Yusuf shapes the dough into small buns and he seasons the stew as Yusuf finishes baking the bread. They dine and drink a whole bottle of wine Yusuf has brought from their shed. The taste of grapes is sweet on Nicolò’s tongue, but it does little to ease the heaviness in his heart.</p><p>Yusuf still has not given him a direct answer as they retreat to bed that night, but Nicolò knows something has changed the minute Yusuf presses both of his hands against Nicolò’s hips, making him turn onto his stomach.</p><p>Nicolò feels his heart beating faster, confused by Yusuf’s lack of words of encouragement and, at the same time, eager to know what might happen next. There is a single candle lit in the room and he wants to turn his head to watch as Yusuf presses his body against his, but the moment Nicolò tries to do it, he feels Yusuf’s hand on his neck, pressing his face against the mattress, keeping him still.</p><p>Nicolò pants as he overhears the distinctive sound of a vial being opened and he feels himself getting hard just to the wet sounds of Yusuf slicking his cock up. He spreads his legs further apart as Yusuf stretches him open, one hand on his hip, the other never leaving the back of his neck.</p><p>Each time Yusuf thrusts, he presses Nicolò’s head further down into the bedding, muffling his moans in the process. Nicolò’s head spins as his air is briefly cut out, and Yusuf groans as he feels Nicolò’s muscles clenching around him. Yusuf fucks him harder, deeper, until he grabs Nicolò’s hair and yanks him up so they are now back to chest, only a fine layer of sweat separating their bodies.</p><p>“Y-Yusuf,” Nicolò gasps with Yusuf’s cock so deep inside him it feels like they will never be apart again. “Please, I-”</p><p>“Shhhh,” Yusuf releases Nicolò’s hair so he can wrap his hand around his throat. His long fingers holding him just a touch below too much, just enough for air to pass through, but not enough for words. “I know, my heart. I know.”</p><p>Nicolò cannot tell what exactly Yusuf knows, but he trusts Yusuf with his life as well as with his death. Nicolò is his for Yusuf to do what he pleases, a blank canvas for him to tear apart and to put back together. Nicolò knows Yusuf could never damage him beyond repair.</p><p>He gasps as Yusuf’ thrusts become rougher and irregular, every other push rubbing that sensitive spot inside that makes Nicolò’s toes curl and his cock leak, untouched. And there must be a tell, something Yusuf can only know by being so attuned to the ways of Nicolò’s body for centuries, because at the same moment Yusuf increases the urgency of his thrusts, he also wraps a fist around Nicolò’s cock.</p><p>“I want you to fuck my hand,” Yusuf commands, his voice hoarse like when he is doing battle, a sound that never failed to make Nicolò’s legs weak. “I am not going to move it, not even an inch, you need to do some of the work here.”</p><p>Nicolò nods somehow frantically, eyes closed, his hair sticky to his forehead, but when he tries to move his hips, he feels Yusuf’s fingers tighten around his throat again and he opens his eyes just in time to see sparks burst on the edge of his vision, no air getting in or out, and he lets out a sound; not a moan, not a gasp but something trapped in between and he is almost surprised as he suddenly comes between the slack grip of Yusuf’s fingers.</p><p>Yusuf groans into his ear, his hand around his throat still a solid weight, but no longer squeezing, and he fucks Nicolò through his orgasm, babbling in every language they share about how tight Nicolò feels around his cock, how sweet are the sounds he makes, how much he loves him, and Nicolò tries to meet each and every one of Yusuf’s thrusts, but his legs have given in and he feels like a puppet with its strings cut, and he is so grateful for Yusuf’s hands and cock keeping him whole.</p><p>Nicolò blinks when Yusuf lays him down on the bed with a care you would hold for a small bird or an explosive device. He presses a kiss to the side of Nicolò’s neck, right behind his ear, telling him to wait. Nicolò groans in return, unable to form words, in fact, unable to move, which makes Yusuf’s request unnecessary. Yusuf is back shortly after, with a cup of water he helps Nicolò sip and a piece of wet cloth he uses to clean the cooling come on Nicolò’s cock and between his legs. Nicolò is about to protest when Yusuf chuckles and lets him be, he knows how much Nicolò likes to feel Yusuf’s spend inside of him for a little longer.</p><p>He thinks he falls asleep, maybe for ten minutes, maybe for an hour, because when he opens his eyes again, Yusuf has brought a chair from the kitchen and has placed it beside their bed. He is watching Nicolò sprawled out on the mattress while he has a pencil in his hand and a sketchbook on his lap. Yusuf is completely naked, and Nicolò drinks in the vision of his beautiful skin glowing under the candlelight.</p><p>That is when he notices the crossbow leaning against the chair, as if Yusuf is just waiting to be attacked any minute. His love smirks, though, lazily, and content like a cat, when he notices Nicolò’s eyes on him. He puts his pencil down. “How are you feeling?” he asks, gently.</p><p>Nicolò takes stock of himself. He feels bone tired, as he usually does after an intense lovemaking, but there is something more, an ache deep inside, a feeling of almost crossing a line and coming back in one piece. It is not so different than all the times they fought for their lives, side by side, certain that nothing could ever separate them. Nicolò finds himself smirking back.</p><p>“I feel good,” he says.</p><p><i>I liked it</i>, he thinks.</p><p>Yusuf stares back at him, eyes bright like Nicolò has not seen them in months, maybe in years. It fills him with fondness and anticipation. He watches as his love gets up and places his sketchbook on the chair. Then, Yusuf picks the crossbow and the pencil, arranges them all together in an almost still life composition, so Nicolò knows there is a message there.</p><p>Yusuf walks to the bed, his soft cock still glistening with oil resting against his thigh, and Nicolò fights the urge to slither a hand down his own body and touch himself between his cheeks, wanting to feel with his fingers that share of Yusuf he gets to hold within.</p><p>“Tomorrow I will go to the market for wood and nails,” Yusuf says as he sits in the bed and takes a hand to Nicolò’s face. He does not touch him, merely lets his fingers hover over Nicolò's skin. “I need to build an easel and a post.” Yusuf traces the lines of Nicolò’s lips, and Nicolò wants to open his mouth and to lap at his salty skin. “Oh, and rope. I will need to buy rope.”</p><p>Nicolò frowns. He thinks about all the rope they have in the cabin or laying around their property, helping to keep pieces of furniture together, tending to the animals, drying their clothes. “We have plenty of rope,” Nicolò says confused.</p><p>Yusuf smiles and takes both of Nicolò’s hands between his own. He holds them together and caresses Nicolò’ wrists with his fingers, as if massaging a hurt away. The touch is careful and yet it sends shivers down Nicolò’s spine, but it is nothing compared to what he feels in the wake of Yusuf’s next words.</p><p>“Oh, my heart,” Yusuf coos. “The rope will be for you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>(to be continued)</i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading this. Comments and kudos are highly appreciated and help me keep writing (also, please let me know if I forgot to tag something?).</p><p>I have one more chapter planned so we can get to the actual painting and <s>knifeplay</s> crossbow business, so if you can spare a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts about our immortal husbands getting freaky/kinky together in Malta. &lt;3</p><p>Tumblr: <a href="http://negotiumcrucis.tumblr.com/">negotiumcrucis</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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